


Escape Into the Arms of Fate

by Kimi_Ichisaigosuki



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Welcome to Night Vale, Youtube RPF
Genre: Again, Antistache, Crossover, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Septiplier - Freeform, Soulmate marks, is it a crossover if it involves real people and a fictional universe?, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimi_Ichisaigosuki/pseuds/Kimi_Ichisaigosuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Jack find their way to Night Vale by way of their own paths.</p><p>Every action has an equal, opposite reaction.</p><p>And then, paths collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I didn't expect this to come together so quickly. It just kind of fell out of my brain onto the keyboard. I've read it through to make sure there aren't any glaring errors, but other than that it's unbeta'd, as per usual.
> 
> The violence warning is for a Night Vale surgical procedure. I'm studying to get into the medical field and let myself geek out a little bit with the anatomy.

“And I would like to inform you, dear listeners, that Carlos and I are finally taking that vacation I’ve been talking about! My intern, Jack, will be covering the show while I’m gone. Be nice to him! I don’t want to come back and find that Station Management consumed him because of angry letters. Stay tuned for bursts of static overlaying a silent explanation of your own mortality and how, in the grand scheme of things, everything is actually pretty okay. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

The radio switched itself off and Mark had to glance at the device in some confusion. He’d lived in the small desert community for a little over four years now, and he still wasn’t used to the way Cecil’s show managed to control appliances to make sure that every citizen could hear the voice of Night Vale. He’d come to the town completely by accident while taking a year off school to try to get his head on straight and decide if he really wanted to pursue engineering.

He’d been driving through the desert that spanned a great deal of southern California and most of Nevada when he’d felt an abrupt, sharp pain in his side and had to pull over at the next off-ramp, eventually stopping at the curb in a residential district. A policeman wearing a balaclava had appeared from behind a mailbox to ask him if everything was alright, and taken him to the hospital when Mark hadn’t been able to respond with anything other than gasps of pain.

Upon his arrival in the emergency room he’d been wheeled into the back on a gurney, strapped down on a cold slab (“more efficient if you die”), and sliced open along the _linea alba_ without ceremony. He’d expected blinding pain, only for the cold burn of the obsidian scalpel to fade almost immediately after the almost loving strokes into his flesh split him open. A nurse, if the creature could be called that, informed him that the air contained aerosolized anesthesia. Nobody had answered his questions about how that worked, or why he wasn’t knocked out, or why doctor was _working under the influence of anesthesia_. Mark watched in horror the doctor used metal retractors to pull open his abdominal cavity and expose his intestines. Ungloved hands extracted his appendix, which one of the “nurses” swallowed whole, then shifted his intestines and spleen out of the way to get to his kidney and remove a large tumor that he hadn’t even been aware of. Two of the creatures assisting the doctor got into a fight over the discarded tissue, growling at each other until the doctor sliced the adenoma in half. With the squabble resolved and the patient well on his way to an anxiety attack, the doctor turned to setting everything more or less back in place. A dark powder that seemed to absorb all light that hit it was sprinkled liberally throughout Mark’s abdominal cavity, and his flesh was pressed back together. The head nurse licked a long stripe up the incision as Mark shouted his protest, its viscous saliva drying into a strong adhesive that easily held the surgical wound closed.

He’d been sent to a room and left to recover. A few days later another balaclava-clad police officer collected Mark from the hospital and neatly deposited him in an apartment with the first and last month’s rent paid and his car parked outside. A dark purple folder sat innocuously on the kitchen table, “Welcome to Night Vale” stamped on the front in silver-gilt letters over an eye in even more shades of purple with a silver crescent moon in the pupil. The folder contained an orientation packet and a kit that cheerfully proclaimed **“Make your own bloodstone circle! Perfect for beginners looking to get into blood sacrifices or to contact ancient creatures that would wreak destruction on this mortal plane!”** Mark spent a good half hour trying to figure out how a folder that laid flat on the table could contain a sheaf of papers over an inch thick and a bulky kit that appeared to be broader than the folder itself.

Eventually someone (skittering along the ceiling, reaching with an inhumanly long arm) flicked open the packet to the basic rules of survival in Night Vale. He’d frozen, eyes wide and unsure of what he hadn’t seen, until a breathy whisper in his ear urged him to _get on with it_. His nose started to bleed and he staunched the flow as he began reading.

That night another name appeared on the Registry of Immigrants. Mark Fischbach would receive his identification documents, mandatory identifying tattoo or brand, and driver’s license in the morning, formally marking his citizenship in Night Vale.

~*~*~*~

“…Ignore all the haters telling you that everything isn’t a sandwich. Everything _is_ a sandwich.” There was a pause filled by a smile so bright it seemed it could outshine the sun even over the radio waves. “But for now, thank you all for listening. Stay tuned for a few hours of songs covered by a physicist, a very sexy man, and an animator. High fives all ’round, Night Vale. Good night.”

Mark snorted, scrubbing his purple hair off of his sweat-slicked forehead and looking around the garage. The day after he arrived in the friendly desert town he’d received a swirling tattoo in black and midnight blue ink that trailed up from his left ankle and around his torso all the way to the tips of his fingers on his right hand, the design flowing over his skin like sunlight over water in intricate whorls and lazy waves. A few weeks and failed escape attempts after being properly marked as a citizen of Night Vale, he’d accepted the inevitable and gone job-hunting. Word got around about his almost-degree in engineering, and ultimately Mark had been hired by the small auto shop near the Arby’s. The job barely had anything to do with engineering and it wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, but it was a decent paycheck and honest work. He’d been approached by the Sherriff’s Secret Police not long after he’d started looking for employment, but turned them down because of the uniform requirements; he couldn’t imagine wearing a cape and balaclava in the scorching desert heat and hiding in shrubbery in front of people’s houses. Honestly, the easy familiarity of work at the garage was comforting. There was something to be said for routine.

Cecil’s intern, though. He was very new. He was a break in the monotony of the past four years.

The young man had a thick Irish accent and a very different sense of humor from the usual radio host. And the way he spoke, how he referenced things…it sounded like he was from Outside, just like Mark. Outsiders had a way of recognizing each other. He smiled and packed away his tools before locking up. Maybe he’d see the young man around.

Mark got in his car and headed to the Ralphs to get some grocery shopping done. He was running low on rice flour pasta, his own little solution to the ban on wheat and wheat byproducts, and if he hurried he might catch the deal on wild cucumbers before they all escaped the store.

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

Jack sighed happily as the door to the radio station shut behind him. His first day of covering for Cecil, and only two complaint letters from the listeners about the change of radio host. Hopefully his streak of luck held until Cecil and his boyfriend Carlos got back from their vacation to Franchia.

The man flipped his green hair out of his eyes and trotted down the steps to the sidewalk, well aware that the buses were absolutely not safe to use on Tuesdays. Jack had only been around for a year or so, and felt like he was starting to get the hang of how things worked in Night Vale.

Back in Ireland, before he’d even known Night Vale was a place, Jack was stuck in a career path leading him directly to hotel management, and not to put too fine a point on it, he’d panicked when he thought about where his life was headed. He’d used his savings to buy a ticket to somewhere in America and hopped on the plane, not really caring where he ended up. He did notice that the name of his destination was weird, and that the ticket was unusually cheap, and that the flight itself was through a tiny airline he’d never heard of before, but that would just help him keep under the radar until he had his life figured out. The plane landed at night in a tiny airport in a desert town in the middle of chaparral and cacti, and Jack took his first breath of sage-sweet dusty air. Things felt…right. Like he was meant to be exactly where he was.

Someone was waiting in the airport lobby, staring blankly up at the lights in the sky through the glass ceiling. Jack gave them a wide berth as they twitched in time with the lights. Those had to be an art display or something, right? It wasn’t like there were just random mysterious lights in the sky.

He stopped at the information desk and asked the young man there if there was a hotel nearby. The receptionist, a teenager with sandy blonde hair that obscured his face, nodded slowly and pushed a brochure towards the young man. Jack took it and made his way outside, a chill passing down his spine. This place was _weird_.

The receptionist was still nodding as the door swung shut behind the only person to get off the plane in Night Vale.

~*~*~*~

Jack spent a week in a motel before the Sherriff’s Secret police knocked on the door of his room and politely enquired why he hadn’t taken up residence in his apartment. He looked at them blearily, squinting against the desert sunlight. “I have an apartment? ’Th fuck did that happen?”

“The day you arrived, Mr. McLoughlin.” The Secret Police escorted him to his apartment, and that was that.

Jack glanced down at his tattoos, watercolor shades of green with intertwined geometrical shapes in stark black line work splashed over his forearms. He’d opted for tattoos over brands when the city representative told him that all Night Vale residents were marked as such, and that the identification marks were absolutely mandatory.

He hadn’t been consulted on what the tattoos would look like. The artist simply looked at him, her eyes filmed over with cataracts and her hands shaking as her ancient limbs trembled like leaves in a nonexistent breeze. She’d taken his hands, looked at his skin, and picked up a razor to shave the hair from his forearms and begin her work. The crone moved with surety and absolute skill, and the tattoos she etched into his flesh suited him. Then she laid her hands over the ink and muttered words in a language he couldn’t understand, and Jack felt a searing pain as the ink seemed to burn into his muscles like acid. She looked up at him. “Even if you leave, you will always carry a piece of your home with you. This mark goes down to your bones.” Her voice was as dry and brittle as her hair, sounding like sand in the desert and wind in the branches of long-dead trees. Jack had all but run out of the tattoo shop once the Secret Police gave him the okay.

He shook his head, chasing away the memories as he turned down the street that would take him to the Ralphs. He needed milk and eggs and some of that horrible gluten-free bread.

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

Mark sighed as he corralled the wild cucumber back into his cart, ignoring the squeaks of dismay coming from the spiky vegetable. Milk and eggs, and then his impromptu pantry restocking should be done. As he turned down the dairy aisle he saw a young man with bright green hair and stopped in his tracks. He knew immediately: Outsider.

The man with purple hair edged behind a creature that absolutely was not an angel to spy on Cecil’s intern, curious about someone else his age who was also from Outside. He’d never heard of him before Cecil mentioned him on the radio and could only assume that the young man kept a low profile. Then he turned to glance at a display and Mark felt like the air was punched from his lungs.

He was gorgeous. It was like falling in love instantly.

Erika looked down at Mark and cleared their throat politely. “Excuse me, I’m trying to get the apple juice.” The young man jumped, then nodded sheepishly and stepped out of the way as the not-an-angel bent down to grab a couple of bottles. They looked at the mechanic and smiled with all five of their mouths, their wings fluttering gently and sending everyone nearby staggering back a few steps. “Ask him.” Mark blushed as Erika nudged him down the grocery aisle to the green-haired Outsider.

Jack looked up in surprise as the angel—not angel, not angel, re-education isn’t fun—pushed a man with deep purple hair towards him. “Hi?” He blinked as the man raked a hand through his hair, a blue-black tattoo swirling down from under the sleeve of his T-shirt over the back of his hand and around his fingernails. He was Asian, and just a touch taller than Jack himself.

He was also stupidly handsome with those glasses and that tight shirt and holy hell, Jack didn’t even know his name yet. Oh, wait, tall-dark-and-handsome was talking.

“—your name?” Mark looked at the young man hopefully.

Jack flushed, unsure if he should give the name he went by or the name he was born with. “…Jack. My name’s Jack.”

“I’m Mark.” The world, which had gone quiet around them, seemed to start up again. They stepped off to the side, out of the way of the other grocery shoppers. “I can’t help but notice that you’re not really from here. I’m not either, and it’s…nice, to talk to someone who knows what normal is outside of Night Vale.”

The Irish man huffed a laugh, leaning against one of the cooler doors. “Tell me about it. I didn’t even plan to settle down here, it just kind of…happened.”

“Yeah, Night Vale seems to decide if it wants you or not. If it does, things tend to work out for you.” Mark smiled. “I’m from Los Angeles.”

“Ireland.”

“Shit, really?” Jack ducked his head bashfully and nodded. “Dude, that’s awesome! I always wanted to travel abroad!”

The two young men continued to talk, falling into conversation like they’d known each other for years. They went through checkout and stopped awkwardly by the doors.

“Hey, d’you—”

“I was wondering—”

They both stopped, then laughed a bit nervously. Jack motioned for Mark to go first. “Do you want to, I dunno, grab dinner at the Moonlite All Nite some time?”

The green-haired young man stared at his companion, thinking for a moment before throwing caution to the wind. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Mark blushed a faint pink as a grin spread over his face. “Great! Tomorrow at seven?”

Jack smiled and leaned over, kissing Mark on the cheek. “It’s a date.” He made his way down the street with his groceries in hand, grinning like a loon when he heard Mark whoop in triumphant excitement as he rounded the corner.

Yes, Night Vale was weird. Yes, it took some getting used to, and sometimes he was homesick.

But sometimes it was worth it. Moments like this made him absolutely sure that he’d made the right choice.

As the two young men went their separate ways, counting the hours until their next meeting, their tattoos changed. Mark’s gained splatters of watercolor green where it crossed his lower back and over his heart; Jack’s geometric shapes gained deep blue shading, softening the razor-sharp black edges.

Out in the desert, a spider-wolf howled.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has an equal, opposite reaction.
> 
> This chapter bumps the rating up to M just to be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I think this is a record for me. Stories never come to me this quickly.

“And as always, until next time, Desert Bluffs. Until next time.” The words rolled around in his mouth before finally falling from his lips, ever so slightly distorted. Wilford Warfstache smirked as the show ended, standing up and stretching until his back popped. Kevin was gone for a week or two, helping upper management with efficiency training, and who better to substitute for the usual radio host than the best reporter in Desert Bluffs? Wilford stepped over the station intern who had dared to try to usurp his rightful spot on the radio waves, ignoring the flies buzzing around the bullet hole in her forehead. Honestly, it was just a little ball of metal; certainly not worth lazing about and leaking blood and cerebrospinal fluid all over the place. Upper management wouldn’t be happy about another intern falling behind on productivity quotas, but that wasn’t his problem.

Wilford lit a cigarette as he exited the broadcasting room and flicked the match into a congealing puddle of blood. One of the Seans in marketing frowned at him and pointed to one of the rule signs that listed smoking as a prohibited activity; the reporter flipped him off and grabbed his coat from one of the racks before leaving the radio station. He walked down the street, keeping up with the brisk flow of foot traffic that followed carefully managed patterns for maximum efficiency. He made a quick detour to the weapons shop and picked up a lovely little number with malachite and bloodstone laid into the sharkskin-wrapped hilt, the edged metal of the full-tang blade polished to a deep blue. Overall a very nice dagger, though not his weapon of choice.

Desert Bluffs was an interesting place to live, run by a large corporation called Strexcorp. Of course, this was where he had to be. He’d given up hope of his Other finding his way to a place that would allow Wilford to escape the mirrors and take up the physicality he deserved; such places were rare in North America, and there wasn’t much chance of the young man getting on a plane to Germany any time soon. But then his Other had found his way to Night Vale. The reporter smirked, taking a drag of his cigarette as he remembered stepping out of a dark mirror swathed in black cloth.

~*~*~*~

He’d opened his eyes to see a golden triangle inlaid in the wall before him, surrounded by sourceless light and an echoing voice that proclaimed itself the Smiling God. Warfstache could serve the Smiling God or be wiped out of existence, and he would make his choice now. Rather than answering immediately, the pink haired man bargained: he would pledge his service in return for the freedom to work on his own project. The resulting laugher sent the reporter to his knees, blood leaking from his ears.

He glared up at the triangle and reasserted his demands to be permitted to conduct his search for his Other, to be the only one allowed to touch him. To take his place and send his Other to the shadowy mirror world that Wilford had been trapped in for as long as he could remember. To cage his Other behind the glass that he’d stubbed his own fingers against so many times until the young man had learned to avoid reflective surfaces, to cover or smudge mirrors and to never _ever_ get within arm’s reach of an antique mirror. The older the mirror, the stronger the door.

Silence prowled around the reporter as the Smiling God looked into and through the creature in front of it, neither human nor demon. Something else, something dark to balance something light. Its smile broadened.

_VERY WELL_

Searing pain blossomed on the back of Wilford’s right shoulder as the Smiling God branded him as one of Its own. The reporter didn’t flinch.

_WELCOME TO THE FLOCK_

~*~*~*~

The reporter wiggled his pink moustache in irritation as he felt the brand on his shoulder prickle uncomfortably, as it was wont to whenever he thought about his first meeting with the Smiling God. He shouldered his way through the crowd, flicked away his cigarette butt, and stepped into the unmarked plate glass building that served as the hub of Strexcorp’s intelligence and espionage center. He was on his way to meet a very special creature.

The secretary buzzed him through without a glance. Warfstache stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for a very special floor. The ride was swift and silent, going deep underground where it was cool enough to keep the servers functioning. He stepped out of the lift, his shoes squeaking on the polished concrete floor as he made his way past row after row of server banks. The person he was looking for should be—a-ha. Wilford smirked as a head of violently green hair came into sight, piercings and gages in the ears gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light. “Hello, Anti.”

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

The plane landed and Antisepticeye burst from the mirror into the chamber of the Smiling God. He looked around wildly, trying to find his Changeling. The child that was supposed to be his but ran away. He was going to kill that arrogant little prick and grind his bones to _dust_ —

He paused as the ancient being in the room with him did the spectral equivalent of clearing its throat. “The fuck do you want?”

_IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I HAD AN UNSEELIE JOIN MY RANKS_

Anti snorted, glancing around for the exit. “I ain’t joining you. I’m lookin’ for my Changeling, so I’m leaving now.” He didn’t make it two feet to the door before an immense force crushed him to the ground, forcing the air out of his lungs. Not that Anti needed to breathe, but still. Rude. Red and green eyes rolled in their sockets as the Shide searched for a focal point of the energy that suffused the room, trying to get enough air into his chest to be able to insult the entity.

_YOU DO NOT NEED TO BE LOYAL TO ONLY MY CAUSE_

The force lightened just enough to let him suck in a labored breath. “Like I’m gonna believe that.”

_I WILL GIVE YOU TIME TO WORK ON YOUR OWN QUEST_

Antisepticeye paused, weighing the possibilities. If this being was anything like him, then it was likely to be bound by the ancient rules that still held sway over many supernatural creatures.

Creatures like him.

“…What did you have in mind?”

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

That fateful meeting had been a year ago. The Smiling God put him in charge of gathering intelligence on other companies and cities, specifically a tiny speck off the map called Night Vale. Anti would have complained if it didn’t mean that he could also gather information on his Stolen Child.

He heard the footsteps behind him. “Fuck off, Warfstache. You stink like cigarette smoke”

A hand snaked over his shoulder and down his chest. “Is that any way to greet me?”

“You sound as stupid as usual.” Anti didn’t look away from the screen in front of him as Wilford scoffed in affronted indignation behind him. “What d’you want?”

“Do I need a reason to visit? Maybe I just wanted some pleasant company.”

Sometimes Anti wished he had his Changeling’s spectacular empathetic abilities; then he might be able to make sense of what the pink haired reporter wanted from him. Warfstache was far more human than Antisepticeye, and more often than not his motives were difficult for the Unseelie to comprehend. Oh, they’d had their dalliances. Bloody rendezvous with teeth and claws and blades and violent intimacy that left them both injured and satiated no matter who came out on top. Such unions were common for a Shide like Anti, and for all his humanity Warfstache had held his own and learned how to play the game with remarkable speed. But sometimes, Anti reflected as he felt a blade trace almost lovingly over the tender skin of his throat, it felt like Wilford wanted more than just their vicious trysts. “You make me bleed on the keyboard, I make you bleed all over your fancy recorder before I shove it up your ass.”

The reporter snorted and sheathed the blade before slipping it onto Anti’s belt. “Happy birthday,” he murmured in the ear of the Fae creature in front of him, tugging at the gaged lobe with his teeth as he trailed his hand over a denim-clad hip before pulling away to walk around and sit on the desk. “It’s a year today since your Other came to Night Vale, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s my birthday,” Anti gritted out as his fingers came down on the keyboard with more force. “Just the day I finally managed to break through the sodding Veil.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just take the damn knife. The bloodstone matches your eyes.”

Antisepticeye shot to his feet. “What in the everloving _fuck_ do you want from me, Wilford?” As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he’d made a mistake. The reporter loved it when he riled up the Unseelie enough to elicit the use of his first name. He turned and stalked into the rows of server banks, intending to disappear into the shadows.

“Ah, ah, ah.” That irritating pink hair flashed in front of his eyes again and Anti turned sharply. “You asked me a question. It’s my job to answer.”

“And I don’t want to listen.” Wilford had him pinned against a concrete pillar before Anti could react. “Let me go!” The points of his ears became more pronounced, his skin paled to the color of moonstone under starlight, his teeth and nails sharpened and unearthly beauty glimmered just under his skin as his _glamorie_ shattered in the face of his wrath.

Wilford’s eyes shone with manic energy. “You don’t want to listen? Fine. I’ll demonstrate.” He leaned in and slammed his lips against Antisepticeye’s, his hands fisted in the front of the Unseelie’s hoodie.

There was a moment of stunned stillness, then a flurry of movement as the two creatures struggled for dominance. The kiss ended bloody and with chipped teeth. They breathed each other’s air, foreheads resting against each other as black and red blood mingled on their lips and the chips in their teeth slowly smoothed over.

Anti stared at Wilford, his ruby-and-beryl hued eyes inscrutable. The reporter smirked at him. “I have information on our Others.” A hand ran over the Shide’s shoulder and up his neck, over the brand that matched the one on the reporter’s own skin. “And I think we may have a way to get to them.”

The Shide and the Doppelganger stared at each other, and slowly Antisepticeye’s lips twisted up in a smirk that curled at the edges. He fingered the hilt of the knife that Warfstache had gifted him. “I’m listening.”

Out in the desert a deer looked between Desert Bluffs and Night Vale, then threw itself in front of a car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When paths collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied, there was one more chapter in this story, as I discovered last night.

Jack was in Mark’s apartment, curled up on the sofa and watching trashy TV while his boyfriend meandered around the kitchen and Cecil’s voice drifted from the radio. “…Listeners, I’m afraid I have terrible news. StrexCorp has…invaded Night Vale. This shouldn’t be possible, given that Strex is now owned by beings who are certainly not angels, but there is a man in my booth holding a comically undersized gun to my head. He says that he and his friend are all that is left of the true incarnation of StrexCorp and—hey! You get away from-!” There was a moment of silence, then the radio host cleared his throat as the two men looked at the radio in shock. “The man’s friend stabbed Intern Barry just outside the booth, by the window. He is…extracting various organs and…eating them. It seems almost ritualistic, and the knife that he used is glowing with an unearthly black light.” He took a moment to collect himself. “To the family and friends of Barry…he will be missed.” Cecil’s voice shook with barely-controlled rage. “I’ve been asked to relay this message to Mark Fischbach and Sean McLoughlin.” Mark and Jack both went tense, Mark’s eyes narrowing as the blood drained from Jack’s face. “They are here for you. Escape was never attainable; you only delayed your capture. Come to the radio station. You have one hour.” The radio crackled. “The two men are allowing me to return to our regularly scheduled programming…”

The two men looked at each other, unease permeating the atmosphere as Cecil spoke in the background. “Jack? I think we need a plan.”

The green-haired young man shook his head vigorously. “No way, Mark. The thing that’s after me can’t be escaped unless ya know what you’re doing. I’ve had lifetimes, plus the training he gave me before I ran away. I don’t want you t’ get hurt.” He started shredding a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “I don’t want ya to get involved in either of the Courts, but the Unseelie Court is by far the worse of the two for mortals.”

Mark frowned worriedly. “Jack, I can take care of myself. And besides, I think I know who the man threatening Cecil was.” He leaned against the counter as his boyfriend looked up in surprise. “You know how I’m half German? Well… I’ve had something after me for a long time, too. Something trapped behind mirrors, so it’s not exactly taking a traditional path, but I’m pretty sure it’s a Doppelganger.” He raked a hand through his scarlet locks. “That’s not something I want you to get involved in, either. But from the sound of things we both have supernatural creatures after us.” He pushed himself off from the counter with a nudge of his hips, walking over to sit beside Jack on the couch. “You’re not the only person with shadows at your heels, Jack. Now.” He took the younger man’s hand. “Let’s figure out what we need to do.”

~*~*~*~

Warfstache paced in the booth, spinning the chambers of his revolver in agitation as Antisepticeye idly sharpened the blade of his athame. “What if they don’t come?”

“They will.” The Unseelie looked over the polished blue metal of the blade critically, the bloodstone laid into the hilt vividly red with the colour absorbed from the knife’s most recent kill. “Jackaboy will come running to try an’ save people from me, and your Other sounds like the type to rush into a fight without looking. Much like you.” The Fae leaned back without looking up, dodging the bullet from Wilford’s revolver with the ease of practice. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Warfstache. You are the boy’s Doppelganger; you’re gonna share some traits with him.” He smirked, finally glancing over at his lover. “D’you think he wears women’s underwear too?”

“Excuse you, nylon stockings are silky and comfortable. It’s not my fault that society imposed gender expectations on something so inconsequential as clothing.”

“And the heels?”

“Fuck you. I like feeling tall.”

Cecil pointedly cleared his throat and shot them a glare as he started wrapping up the day’s broadcast. Wilford leveled his revolver at the radio host, only for Anti to set a hand on his shoulder and shake his head, glancing meaningfully at the ceiling. For all their differences, the Faceless Old Woman was dead set on protecting the Voice of Night Vale. The reporter settled with a begrudging glare at the creature skittering across the ceiling and through the wall separating the sound booth from the hallway like it was nothing more than smoke. “They’re late.”

The Unseelie went back to sharpening his blade. “They have another five minutes.”

Both creatures looked up as they felt the doors to the radio station open. Sharp teeth gleamed in the dull light of the booth as mortal souls resonated with theirs.

Jack and Mark were here.

~*~*~*~

The mortal lovers crept through the doors, their ring fingers bleeding from the complimentary lancets kept by the station entrance. You needed to bleed on the doors to be allowed in, as per the ancient customs.

The red-haired man muttered under his breath as he looked through his backpack to make sure he had everything, only subsiding when his lover elbowed him. They had everything they needed; there was no point in making too much noise. The speakers crackled, then Cecil’s voice cut through the air. “Mark, Jack. The men are waiting to talk to you in the break room.” Silence fell even thicker than before and the men exchanged worried looks before following the signs to the break room. They had a plan, but it was rough and banked on quite a bit of luck. Mark had the oldest mirror they could find at the pawn shop, and Jack had a wrought-iron fireplace poker that he’d begged from one of the Secret Police. Every Secret Policeman carried some form of wrought iron in case there was another ghost infestation, but Jack intended to use it on an entirely different creature.

Wilford Warfstache and Antisepticeye looked up as their Other and their Changeling walked into the break room, both of the mortal men nervous and worried about what the outcome of this confrontation would be. Wilford smirked and climbed to his feet, his heels giving him an extra couple of inches on his Other. “Why, hello, Mark. It’s been quite some time.” He made his way over to the mechanic, his hips swaying as he sashayed across the room. The tables and chairs were swept to either side of the room as though an impatient hand had swatted them out of the way, leaving the four beings facing off in the center of the chamber with a briar hedge of urban office furnishings caging them in. “You look well. I see you’ve hooked up with a lovely young man.”

Mark’s hands tightened into fists as he refused to rise to the challenge. “Wilford. How the hell did you get out of the mirror?” He didn’t waver as the reporter slipped a tiny dagger from his garter and used the tip of the blade to trace the human man’s jawline. “You should have been trapped.”

“All sorts of things can happen in a place like this, _boy_.” Wilford spat out the last word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “You have no idea how much you owe me for keeping me trapped in that god forsaken shadowland.”

Jack watched Mark and his Doppelganger face off, too engrossed in the conflict unfolding before him to notice his own adversary fade into the shadows and step out behind him. He jumped as clammy hands landed on his shoulders and sharp teeth nicked his ear. “Good t’ see ya again, Jackaboy.” Anti dragged Jack a step back with an arm across his throat and black claws digging into his abdomen. “Why’d you run from me, kiddo? You had such a promising life ahead of you in the Court.” The Shide’s claws pierced Jack’s shirt and teased at his skin. “A good Changeling doesn’t run.” The Irish man ducked one shoulder and twisted out of his captor’s grip. He pulled the iron poker out of his bag and brandished it like a broadsword, ignoring Anti’s laughter. “Oh, does the kitten have claws?” The Unseelie’s smirk turned cruel as he spun his athame around his fingers. “Ya didn’t have nearly enough training t’ defeat me when you left, Jack, and you’re out’a practice. Just come home like a good little boy and I’ll go light on the torture.” Anti’s smirk slid right off his face as Jack lashed out with the poker, the burning chill from the cold iron coming dangerously close to his skin. “Oh, if that’s how you wanna play, then that’s how we’ll do it.” The Fae creature let his _glamorie_ drop completely and lunged at the green-haired Changeling.

~*~*~*~

Mark grunted as Warfstache slammed him against the wall, protecting the mirror with his body; if the mirror broke, his plan fell to pieces. The man groaned in pain as he slid to the floor, then hissed as fingers wound in his hair to yank his head up off the ground. “Give up, boy.” He spat blood on the Doppelganger’s shoes and rolled away from the kick that followed. “You stupid motherfucker!” Mark scrambled to his feet and lashed out with the sharpest knife from his kitchen, managing to score a long cut over Wilford’s chest. The Doppelganger snarled and shot at him, but the range was too close and the bullet buried itself in the wall behind Mark as the human tackled his Double. He grabbed Wilford’s arm and sunk the kitchen knife through his hand and into the drywall. The shriek of pain made his ears bleed scarlet to match the injury in his Doppelganger’s hand, but he ignored the pain so he could yank the antique mirror out of his backpack and turn to face Warfstache. The reporter turned white as a sheet when he saw the reflective surface and tried to kick Mark away. “No! Nonono not again! Please, Mark!”

The man winced as heels impacted his shins. “You were going to do the same thing to me, you asshole.”

“No! No, I’ll leave you alone! I promise!” The Doppelganger struggled, trying to pull the knife from his hand so that he could run. “I promise, Mark! I’ll never bother you again! Just don’t send me back!”

Mark stared at his Double, panicked and pinned and lying through his teeth. “You see, you promised me that once before.” His grip on the mirror frame tightened. It wasn’t very big; just large enough to frame his face. That was all he needed. “You broke that promise. I’m very lucky that my brother knew something was wrong.” He brought the mirror up to reflect his Doppelganger’s face. “So, I don’t believe you. _Go home_.”

Wilford Warfstache screamed as the mirror sucked him into the shadowy world behind the glass. His revolver hit the floor with a clatter and Mark shoved the mirror into his backpack to keep any more light from hitting the silvered glass. He gasped for breath and turned to see how Jack was doing.

~*~*~*~

Jack snarled and slashed at the Unseelie, only to be thrown to the floor by a vicious backhand across his face. Antisepticeye stood over him, his shoulders heaving as black blood oozed from the burn marks left by the cold iron where it had touched his bare skin. “You ungrateful brat. I sacrificed so much for you.” Jack coughed as the Shide kicked him in the ribs. “ _This_ is how you repay me?!” Another kick. “I saved your life!” Anti grabbed his Changeling by the throat and hoisted him into the air, ignoring the kicks that connected with his chest and arms. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Hey!” Anti looked over at Mark’s shout and Jack took his shot.

The Unseelie screamed as the iron poker lashed across his arms, dropping the green-haired man. As soon as his feet were back on the floor Jack slammed the rod into the side of Anti’s head, sending him reeling and leaving a thin, scorched line across his right eye. Jet-black blood streamed from the new cuts and into his green-and-red eye. “Traitor!” Mark ran over and looped the woven silk rope Erika had given them at the pawn shop around the Fae’s chest and arms, tying him up as securely as he could while struggling against the inhuman strength. Anti’s wrath turned to Mark. “You trapped him! You took him from me!” He bit the human, snarling as Mark pulled away with a yelp. “You took my consort from me! You had no right!” His lips peeled back from bloody teeth. “I will personally help Wilford dismember you for this once I free him!”

“Hurry up, Jack!”

“I’m goin’ as fast as I can!” Jack scribbled on the floor with white chalk, muttering under his breath as he tried to recall the exact lines and chants that Antisepticeye had taught him when he was young. He finished the banishing circle as Mark shouted again, grabbing Anti’s fallen athame and slashing his hand open so he could bleed onto the sigils. The chalk lines flared up with sullen green light and the Unseelie struggled harder. “Now, Mark!”

Jack’s lover hauled the Fae to his feet and threw him into the circle, making sure none of the containment lines got scuffed. Anti burst free of the ropes and threw himself at his Changeling. The circle held him as securely as if it was made of stone.

Antisepticeye prowled around the inside of the circle as Jack pulled out the _grimoire_ he’d had for years before he escaped. It held every spell Jack had ever learned. He’d brought it with him to make sure it never fell into the wrong hands, but he’d hoped that he never had to even open the book again. His hands shook, and Mark set a steadying hand on his shoulder. “ _This is a spell of banishing and of binding…_ ” Jack’s voice steadied and became more confident as the Gaelic rolled off his tongue like he hadn’t stopped speaking it years ago.

Like he hadn’t spent nearly two decades outside of the land ruled by the Unseelie Court after at least five centuries insulated from the effects of aging and emerged to find the world very different from how he left it.

The Unseelie glared at his Changeling, his once-protégé. “I’ll be back, y’know.”

Jack looked up at him, his eyes hard. “I know.” He finished the spell and Antisepticeye vanished. He nodded at Mark, who threw the mirror down into the circle hard enough to shatter the glass. The kitchen knife burst from the shards, still stained with the Doppelganger’s blood. 

Silence fell, stretched out, then snapped as the two men started laughing somewhat hysterically. “We…we did it.” Mark reached out and hugged Jack tightly.

The Irish man grinned and hugged him back. “Yeah, we did.” He looked around at the ruined break room. “…Cecil’s gonna kill me. Uh?”

Mark caught his boyfriend’s chin and kissed him softly. “No, he’s not. You’ve survived too much for me to let him kill you.” Jack chuckled and let Mark kiss him again. “Let’s at least clean up our mess.”

The two men tidied up the break room as best they could, cleaning up the glass shards and the kitchen knife and the bloody chalk lines before setting the chairs and table more-or-less back in place. They left the radio station hand in hand, headed to the pawn shop to dispose of the detritus from the battle, and looked at each other. “…When were ya gonna tell me that you had an evil double out to kill you?”

“…Probably around the same time that you were going to tell me that you spent way more time away with the fairies than you’d like to admit. I gotta say, you look pretty spry for someone who’s centuries old.”

They laughed as the absurdity of the situation and the relief of surviving a confrontation with two supernatural beings washed over them. “Fair enough. Once we finish up at the pawn shop, you wanna head to the Moonlite All Nite and share a slice of invisible pie?”

“Is that even a question?” Mark leaned over and pecked Jack on the cheek. “Of course I do, you goof.”

They headed down the street as the Glow Cloud blocked out the sun, intoning that the town of Night Vale would bow down to the Cloud’s child when the Cloud dissipated into the ether and became one with the air and water and starlight again. Mark and Jack’s fingers twined together, and everything was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way magic works in this story is a nod to Diane Duane's "Young Wizards" series. Please let me know what you thought! Constructive criticism is always welcome.


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